I’m not a flasher – I’m a nursing mother. And generally a modest one. But when I decided to breastfeed my 15-week-old daughter, Anya, I quickly learned that to avoid being cloistered in my apartment for the next six months, I was going to have to take my milk to town.

The idea terrified me. I imagined well-intentioned strangers approaching for a glimpse of the baby only to discover that my pink bundle of joy was milking me like a Jersey cow. And it hasn’t always been easy.

At Thanksgiving, my sister-in-law’s European family shunned me. They actually fled the living room when I decided to unbutton for a post-Turkey feeding. My sister-in-law forbid me to nurse in front of her family after that – a decree she’s refused to budge on.

When the American Academy of Pediatrics issued its first breastfeeding guidelines in close to a decade last week, urging mothers to breastfeed their babies exclusively for the first six months, it firmed my resolve to keep the milk bar open – anytime, anywhere.

In fact, resolving to donate my boobs to science, I decided to push the boundaries a little, and see what would happen. I started with baby steps, putting Anya in her stroller and heading to Central Park for our daily walk. Anya started crying and the experiment began.

I sat on a bench, readied Anya and hiked up my shirt, fully exposing my breast.

When Janet Jackson pulled this trick at last year’s Super Bowl, it set off a national firestorm. But none of the hundreds of people in the park seemed to even notice. So I stood up and walked with Anya, still attached, along the bridal path.

Then I took her off the boob and let it dangle while I burped her over my opposite shoulder. The burp lasted about three minutes. Nothing!

After about 20 minutes of overt nursing and breast-dangling, a few high-school-age boys noticed, blushed and cracked up. Some touring Brits also did a double take. A dog walker smiled at Anya, who apparently was more alluring than the partly exposed size E lactating breast swinging next to her.

I headed onto 96th Street, and nursed as I walked.

“The mouse is out of the house,” a man in his late 60s muttered, as his dog defecated on the entrance to the 6 train.

My courage surged. What was I so worried about? I could go anywhere. I called a friend and invited her to hit the posh shoe department at Bergdorf Goodman.

There were at least 10 sales associates there, most of them men. My friend tried on shoes, and I nursed Anya.

Nobody said a word. I became less discreet. Forget about across the room – you could have spied my Zeppelin-size bosom from space. I stood up with Anya still on my breast and walked toward a sample shoe several feet away.

People definitely noticed – the sales associates drew in their breath – but nobody clicked their tongues. I asked the man who was helping us if my breastfeeding was a problem.

“You’re not the first,” he said dryly.

So far so good. But what about a fancy restaurant? We hit the Pool Room at the notoriously stodgy Four Seasons and were seated just opposite Gov. George Pataki. Ten feet separated us. I woke Anya up from her nap to nurse her.

The governor didn’t notice, or if he did, he didn’t acknowledge Anya – strange behavior for a politician when there’s an adorable baby in the room. I lifted my sweater higher so she wouldn’t get milk on the cashmere.

One waiter rushed over and delicately offered me a napkin to drape over my breast. I refused it. A couple, a few tables down, noticed Anya slurping away the second time she was fed. The woman nudged her date and he turned and looked casually. He then turned back toward her and they chatted conspiratorially.

Our own waiter, a dad, actually applauded my breastfeeding and said I was doing the right thing.

Thinking back over the previous 14 weeks – I’ve nursed on planes, buses, in a Target store, in a church and inside New York museums. The only time a stranger seemed concerned about it was in the Guggenheim cafeteria, where a bone-thin lady in her late 60s put her hand up over her eyes and shook her head in my general direction.

So if I can pull off over-the-top nursing all over town and not get called on it, discreet nursing mothers should be above reproach. As for me, I’m going to skip dinner with the family – and head for the Four Seasons.